Sins of the Father
by ScareyQuinette
Summary: As Jeremiah Arkham unravels, still mourning the loss of his long-dead daughter, he chances upon a young Alyce Sinner, on the run from her dark past, and is hurtled into an obsession that will test the sanity of them both.
1. Prologue

_The girl stumbles with each step as she walks through the cemetery, her legs heavy from fatigue. __The veins push out against her skin, making a purple-blue web from her sunken face to frozen toes. She is emaciated to the extreme of repulsion, a mere shade of a person – a ghost amongst the peaceful dead in their graves. She is delirious, senseless in her search through the carved headstones where no one can offer help. More than hungry, she is starving, a lost child a day from death. Though she stands above ground, she feels as one down below in the bowels of the earth. When she can battle on no further, she turns her head sky-ward in desperate prayer and is stolen by the blackness. She does not feel the embrace of the grass and moss as it forms her a bed for her weary soul. Under the shade of the night sky with skeletons all around, Alyce Sinner sleeps dreamlessly._


	2. Things You See in A Graveyard

**Author's note:** This story uses a slightly different backstory for Jeremiah than is shown in the comics, based on how I wrote him on an RPG a while ago. While many of the elements are the same, I've filled in his rather sparse background with my own ideas that will become clear as the story goes on so please do let me know what you think! Alyce's history is much the same as in the comics, though I've introduced her much earlier than is done in the comics. The start of this story is based on an idea I was developed back on the RPG but now I hope to develop it further. I still love you David Hine, I just live to tweak.

* * *

Delusions were eating at the soul of Jeremiah Arkham. His asylum had fallen and the spirit of the bat contained within had been let loose on the world. It followed him, snapping at his heels and shouting his guilt from every building top. As he lay on the starched cotton of his bed, the television set drowned out its usual drivel.

_The search for missing Arkham Asylum personnel continues. Former administrators, Dr Jonathan Crane and Dr Joan Leland are currently unaccounted for, as well as several members of nursing staff and guards. Dr Harleen Quinzel's status has been changed to missing, presumed dead, after leaked video footage discovered on the internet seems to show her suffering a beating from the criminal known as the Joker, still at large. Citizens are reminded not to approach any of the missing inmates..._

Jeremiah threw his fist at the wall. His heirs had failed in their duty. Crane, Leland - they had both run the asylum and failed to crush the bat. They would be held accountable for their mistakes when he found them. The bat would not have let them die so easily - they must be hiding. Oh, his poor failed children...

He was on the street, walking with feet made of lead. His eyes were red - dry from staring at the wall in place of sleep. The roses he had bought were already wilting, their blood red petals falling onto the sidewalk behind him - a trail of followable sin. His tailored coat was buttoned to the neck, not allowing a single breath of the night time chill to brush against his skin. He wore black gloves to cover any crime he might never commit and on his head was a wide hat, his Uncle's from a century ago.

Dorothy Arkham's grave was one of the most intricate in the whole of the Gotham Cemetery, and could be seen in its outline from the gates. Like a man walking to his execution, Jeremiah's steps were slow and laboured with the weight of grief. How long had his little girl been dead? It might have only been a day for his heart felt the sting so freshly and yet it might have been years, as he could hardly remember a day when sorrow had not engulfed him.

As he approached the white marble monument, with its carved angels and roses, Jeremiah saw the form slumped on the grass. Her blonde hair masked her features, spread across her face as it was, and Jeremiah found it hard to breathe. He fell to his knees, the roses dropping from his hand. Would she not have reached that size by now? No spirit would choose to live their eternity as such a small child. Girls dreamed of growing up. And here his Dorothy was - the grown up purgatorial child - waiting for her father to pull her back to life.

The roses continued to wilt, long forgotten at Jeremiah's feet as he reached forward to grasp the angel on the ground. Tears spilled into her hair as he held her, frost turning them to diamonds amongst the gold. Time stops for them and Jeremiah could only cry. He took in his grown daughter, and found the green eyes staring back at him. He thought his memory an unkind friend, as he had always seen hers in his mind's eye as blue – how cruel time could be to the grieving that it tricked them to hold dear falsehoods.

'Dotty,' he breathed, pressing a kiss to her forehead. Behind her, the headstone's lying letters shone out bright from the marble.

_Dorothy Elizabeth Arkham_

_1__st__ January 1995 – 14__th__ February 2000_

_Beloved Daughter._

Jeremiah laughed at the stone, its sound unwelcome in the solemn place. His vision swam. He had a headache – the Bat was closing in and he must keep Dorothy safe. He stole another glance at his angel, the sight warming his heart. She had grown to look so unlike her mother or the madman that had stolen Jeremiah's place. To his mind, she almost resembled him, though her hair was yellow where his was dark. He held his hand out to her and she took it, the tiny thing laughable in the strength of his. Jeremiah almost shattered at the touch. He had not felt as alive since Dorothy's own first breaths but they had no time to waste – the Bat was coming for them and their joy.

He moved as a shade through the city, carrying his stolen princess with him. He darted from taxi to taxi – street to street, not daring to look at her until they were safe behind the locked and chained door of his apartment. Only then did he release the girl from his grip and look at her. She was perfect.

The room swam in front of his eyes as he tried to focus on her. He heard her question him – question his identity. It made him laugh, a shrill and heartbreaking sound that filled the room like smoke. His angel had grown up in purgatory, how would she know him? How would she know how much he adored her? How much he would have done for her?

As his eyes began to fill with darkness and the world melted away, Jeremiah's last vision was of his Dorothy, a lost and wandering cherub sinking into the floor...

On the threadbare carpet of a long neglected study, two bodies laid unconscious, bending to each other's negative like a human ying-yang. The girl, barely seventeen and in dire health, seemed to shine with her golden hair and ivory dress while the man, seeing his way into middle age, was a shade in black. And so it was in this artistic scene, untroubled by bad dreams, that Jeremiah Arkham and Alyce Sinner passed their first night in each other's company.


	3. A Strange Discovery

The maid knew better than to call an ambulance. She was accustomed to her employer's fits of delirium and midnight ramblings and, though they concerned her, she had learnt better than to comment after the first rage he directed her way. She regarded the stranger on the floor, almost emaciated and poorly dressed for the late autumn weather. It was clear the girl was homeless, most probably a junkie of some sort, and the sight caused the maid to sigh. She had worked with these types of people in her previous life, before she had come to work for the Arkhams, and yet it seemed they had found her again.

With the help of the seldom-used and often-drunk chauffeur, the lost child was settled in one of the apartment's spare rooms, propped up on a dozen pillows. An IV drip was sourced from amongst the doctor's possessions and the maid set it up by the bed, finding that the prick of the needle did not wake the stranger in the sheets. It had been years since the maid had last treated a dehydrated body and she kept a close watch, in fear of her own actions. Not even the sounds of her employer rising and locking himself away in his own room was enough to disturb her from her vigil, though she worried about his condition as well.

As she busied herself around the bedside, fussing over blankets, the maid wondered about the girl whose care she had taken on. While it was not uncommon for Dr Arkham to disappear from dusk 'til dawn, he had never before brought back a souvenir from his night time exploits. Though the young woman in the bed was as pretty a thing as the maid have ever seen, even in her current state, and so she supposed this beauty was what had affected the doctor. Where she had come from bothered the maid as she snuck glances at the girl's clothes. The cream dress she wore was plain and poorly stitched, home-altered if not completely home-made, and at odds with the heavily-worn army boots on her feet. Around her wrist were seven frayed ribbons – blood red against the ivory of her skin.

The girl came to just before ten, her eyes opening reluctantly as though she feared to see another new day. It was a moment before she noticed the maid, too caught up in the surprise warmth of the bed and foreign needle in her arm. She did not seem too concerned in her situation, something the maid found odd, as she could not imagine being anything but bitterly suspicious in the same circumstances. Still, it was probably days since the young girl had been even close to a bed and that would make it welcome even in far harsher circumstances. She let the girl to her confusion for a moment before clearing her throat and taking a step towards the bed.

'Good. You're awake,' she began, treating the wide-eyed stranger with as much familiarity as she could manage. 'For a while then I thought you were gone for good.'

The girl's mouth opened and closed wordlessly as her body struggled to remember how to obey the brain. The maid continued without needing to hear.

'You're in an apartment on Diamond Street – you've only been here the one night so you haven't missed much. That drip in your arm is to get some fluid into you – you were rather dehydrated when I found you.'

They shared a silence as the blonde took in her words, eyes following the IV in her hand to the bag that hung to her right. Finally she spoke, her green eyes imploringly fixed on the maid.

'Who's the man? The one in the graveyard who brought me here?'

The maid closed her eyes briefly in silent realisation. Her employer had been at the grave again when he found the lost child. His sanity was never quite on-kilter when he was there.

'Dr Arkham.'

The girl stared blankly, the cursed name awakening nothing in her. She could not be a Gotham native, or her face would have clouded, as everyone's always did, on being reminded of the Arkham name and, in turn, their asylum.

'I'm his maid, Sarah,' she continued when the girl continued to stare blankly at her. 'I figured you could do with a bed rather than that hard floor so brought you in here. Now I suppose you could do with a bath, Miss...?'

There was a pause, the girl seemingly unsure of how to answer or what to do. With a glance around the cosy room, she seemed to pick the strange situation over the streets.

'Sinner. I – my name is Alyce Sinner.'

_Of course it is. _

'Well then, Alyce,' Sarah the maid continued, flashing a smile. 'Let's sort you out with a bath.'

Alyce Sinner had a compliant nature, not arguing as Sarah removed the IV and helped her up. She sat on the closed toilet seat as the bath was run, lost in her thoughts. She nodded as Sarah pointed out towels and a dressing gown, and just as the maid was shutting the door to leave her alone, she saw Alyce dutifully begin to remove her clothes.

* * *

Alyce sank into the bath, the warm water easing her tense muscles almost at once. She could hardly understand how she had made it here but a hot bath was the sort of thing she could not turn down in her current situation. She had been running for almost two weeks with no idea of where she was going – a little rest was not about to interrupt her plans. As she lay in the water, staring up at the ridiculously extravagant chandelier, Alyce thought about the man who had brought her here. She remembered him in bits, in feelings more than visions. He had strong hands, she remembered the way they held her up as they moved through the city when she could hardly stay conscious. She remembered bits and pieces of what he looked like – the brass buttons on his coat, the lacquer in his hair; but most of all she remembered his eyes. They had been almost black, wide as saucers and unblinking. They had filled her with terror and comfort all at once and now she could not decide if she had been saved or captured.

The water was almost ice cold when Alyce finally gathered the strength to get out, instantly finding warmth again in the multitude of fluffy towels the maid had left. She wondered how rich Dr Arkham had to be to have a maid and live in such a decadently decorated home. The only doctor she had ever known had lived in a sparsely furnished home with only two rooms. Dr Arkham must have been from 'old money' as her father had called it, condemning the very notion whenever it was mentioned. While it might have made her father curse, Alyce was excited by the idea. She had never had money, or the need for it, and had presumed her new life would be a poor one. She was getting ahead of herself, but part of her was desperate to stay in this world that she had fallen into so accidentally.

Now she was clean, Alyce could not bring herself to put on her old dress, filthy from her time on the streets; and so instead shrugged into the robe Sarah had hung on the back of the bathroom door for her. It seemed brand new and made Alyce feel the same way as she wore it. She crept unsurely back into the room she had woken up in, finding it empty. There was little to explore, as the dresser and wardrobe that had been placed in the room were both empty so she sat back down on the bed, staring at the portrait she had failed to notice when she first awoke. It seemed Victorian to Alyce, judging by the clothes and general style, though on her way through the city she had seen a studio full of costumes where people dressed themselves up and posed for photographs as though they were from decades ago, so she could not be sure it was not something similar. The girl in the portrait was young, around four or five, and smiled – a wistful look in her blue eyes. Her hair fell in gold ringlets and Alyce found herself twirling her own damp blonde hair around her fingers, feeling rather plain compared to the pretty little girl.

'I see you've discovered Dorothy.'

Alyce had not heard Sarah come in, and the voice made her jump, her head whipping round to the source in the doorway. The maid simply smiled, setting the tray she carried down on the dresser before she too examined the portrait.

'She was a pretty thing, poor girl,' she stated, sighing heavily. 'When she was well.'

'Who is she?' Alyce asked, turning her attention back to the painting.

'Dorothy was Dr Arkham's daughter. She died when she was very little.' Sarah forced another smile, her tone brightening falsely, 'still, that's ancient history now and I've got you to look after. I've got you some breakfast, though I don't know if you'll be able to keep it down. The body tends to reject food once it gets too hungry but we'll see how we go.'

The maid did not seem to want to discuss Dorothy Arkham anymore and so Alyce tried to put the child out of her mind. The tray she had been given was a feast to her starved eyes and she hardly knew where to begin. Before she had a chance to though, Sarah handed her a glass of water and held out two pills that Alyce eyed warily.

'They're vitamins,' she assured, forcing them into Alyce's hand. 'God knows you probably need them.'

Once the vitamins were coerced into her, Alyce ate her breakfast under Sarah's hovering supervision, finding that she managed to keep all of it down and kill the hunger that had been driving her slowly mad. Once the tray was empty, Sarah ushered Alyce back to the bed, tucking her in like a child.

'Get some more rest,' she advised. 'I need to go and get you some things to wear and a comb for that hair of yours before it all tangles.'

'You don't need to do that,' Alyce replied, somewhat embarrassed by the charity.

'Dr Arkham's asked that you have dinner with him if you're feeling well enough this evening,' Sarah stated, her expression suddenly cold and unreadable. 'You can hardly go in a dressing gown and unbrushed hair. Now sleep – it'll do you good.'

Left alone in the room she now supposed was hers, Alyce stared up at the portrait of Dorothy Arkham and wondered if once upon a time, the bed had been put there for her. She spent a long time pondering the would-have-been life of the dead girl who watched from the wall, not noticing when the waking thoughts became her sleeping dreams...


	4. Convincing

The match had long-since burned out, singeing Jeremiah's fingertips, and yet he had not stirred. In an ashtray on the table sat the cigar he had neglected to light, long forgotten now as the Doctor stared out of the window at the advancing sunset. He had risen late, finding that his maid was too occupied with their guest to see to him and so had spent most of the day sat in his study, watching over Gotham from his long windows. What he remembered of the night before disturbed and distracted him. Every instant he closed his eyes, the image of the girl collapsed on the grave came to him with haunting detail. He remembered everything about her; the emaciated form under the rags she wore as a dress; her hair, golden under the dirt; and her eyes, fearful and confused...

Between his fingers, Jeremiah crushed what was left of the burned matchstick, the ash falling onto the chair like the rain of hell upon the damask. With the sun, he knew that the girl now occupying Dorothy's bedroom was not his lost daughter returned, but as the light began to disappear under the horizon, it took all of his strength to crush the hope that threatened to creep back into his heart. She was some nameless junkie, who had happened to find herself in front of the cursed tombstone, that was all...

But her eyes. They came back to him as he blinked. Behind the confusion, there was something else. Hope? Faith? She had trusted him, like a child following a parent through purgatory, afraid of the destination but more terrified still of being left alone. She was no ordinary lost child...

Jeremiah slapped his hand down on the table to try and shock himself into sense. He had given the girl a room for the night, fed her and had Sarah clothe her. Now he had to turn her out of the house, give her back to the night. She would continue on her way and Jeremiah would continue on with his...

It was curiosity that had seen him ask her to dinner with him. Nothing more. He was not looking for Dorothy in her. His daughter was dead and buried. She could not come back to haunt him...

She was just another of the city's junkies...


	5. Sharing Names

Alyce had dressed herself in the new clothes Sarah had bought with no reluctance. If she was going to eat dinner with the man who owned the opulence she had found herself surrounded by, she was not going in her scrappy dress that hadn't been washed since she'd run away. The new clothes were white too, she supposed Sarah had tried to stick to the familiar, but Alyce had never seen anything so fine. There was a dress with a high collar and fine embroidery on every inch; a pair of cream tights, thick enough to keep her warm against the city's cold winds, and a pair of patent leather shoes that felt too dainty after wearing her army boots for so long. Sarah had even bought her a little ribbon-wrapped band for her hair so she could keep it out of her eyes and refrain from her habit of pulling on it.

Once she got herself ready, Sarah had led her down the hall to a dining room to wait for Dr Arkham. This room was so unlike her assumed bedroom that it unnerved Alyce to be there. The bedroom had become safe to her, and now she was alone in a dark-panelled room lit only by the fire burning in the grate, and two candles set on the table. It should have been cosy, but the room was too large for that and instead loomed over its guest with long shadows and dark corners. The whole place made Alyce shudder and so she wandered to the fireplace in the hopes that the extra light would console her.

Above the mantle hung another portrait of Dorothy Arkham, this one far more elaborate and taking up most of the wall it was set on. It showed her in a garden, a large country house just visible in one corner. She was grinning from ear to ear, her blonde ringlets blown by the wind as she held out a little bouquet of daisies picked from the grass. Alyce smiled as she took in the painting, unable to imagine how awful it must have been for the Arkhams to lose such a happy child so young. Sarah had not said how old she had been when she died, but there were no traces of her beyond this point in her life. Alyce's smile faltered as she thought of the children she had left back home, of what had become of them. The thought made her feel sick and she forced herself to think of little Dorothy instead, happily picking daisies in the garden.

She did not hear the door opening on the other side of the room, or Jeremiah Arkham's gentle footsteps as he approached the table, his eyes fixed on the back of her head. He was already sat down when she turned around, jumping to find that she was no longer alone. Her shock was reflected back at her in her host's face, though he must have known that she was there. Now she was in her right mind, she wanted to examine him properly, but instead she found herself staring at her feet, unnerved by his wide, black eyes. After a long moment, Dr Arkham spoke, his voice a velveteen hiss that she could only just hear over the crackling of the fire.

'I never managed to catch your name.'

'Alyce,' she replied, finding her voice so coarse and unrefined after his that she lowered it to a whisper in shame, unconsciously tugging on one of the ribbons around her wrist. 'Alyce Sinner.'

There was no reply and Alyce's eyes snapped up, afraid she had somehow managed to offend him. His face was unreadable, but he gestured for her to sit with a well-practised politeness. The place set for her was on the very end of the table so she and Jeremiah were sat as far away from each other as possible, but Alyce didn't really mind. The further she was from him, the less his eyes would bore into her, or so she thought.

'My name is Jeremiah Arkham,' he paused, watching her closely for a moment before continuing, 'I am sorry that we met under such strange circumstances. My nerves have been greatly affected by the night after recent events. I am sure you have seen the news.'

'I've not been here long, I didn't even know the name of the city not that long ago.'

Jeremiah watched her, his gaze as strong as ever across the table. Alyce felt fidgety but she didn't dare move, too scared of putting a toe out of place.

'I see. Well then, I suppose my name needs more explaining that I thought.'

But he fell silent again, leaving Alyce confused as to what he expected her to do. She was used to cryptic conversations, as they had been the only sort her father dealt in, but she felt out of her depth now.

'Sarah says you're a doctor?'

'Yes. A psychiatrist,' he replied, eyes unwaveringly fixed on her as he spoke. 'Though I have given up practise. Now I simply oversee my family trust.'

He cast his arm out, gesturing towards a small photograph on the wall of a vast country house in grey stone. Around the roof, gargoyles jutted out, their manic grimaces sending a shiver down Alyce's spine.

'It was my family's home, once. Then the home became one small corner to make room for the inmates.'

'Inmates?' Alyce repeated, frowning slightly.

'Patients, I suppose it is more prudent to call them, though many were simply criminals Blackgate could not contain,' came Jeremiah's dismissive reply. He had turned his eyes from her to the photograph and was now inspecting it as if he would suddenly find something different in it after years of learning each and every line. 'The Arkham Estate became The Elizabeth Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane and cursed every corner from attic to basement.'

Alyce had heard of insanity before. Her father could preach until he was red in the face about the madness of the outside world, and yet she had never heard of a place where such people could be kept. She had believed that madness just roamed free in the world, unable to be tethered and kept under lock and key. What a psychiatrist was, she couldn't guess, but she felt too embarrassed to let him know that so simply nodded mutely.

'Thank you for letting me stay here last night.'

'It was out of my hands,' came the silky reply. 'But we could not turn you out onto the streets after I had already stolen you away from what had been your chosen bed of the night.'

A blush crept into her cheeks at that, and she turned her face away, gazing up at Dorothy's portrait. It was a trick of the light, she was sure, but somehow the little girl seemed to have changed. She still smiled, but something in her expression looked unsure, frightened even.

'She should have never been in the ground during my lifetime.'

Jeremiah's voice now was barely audible, as if the words were thoughts pulled from him against his will. But Alyce heard him perfectly.

'What happened to her?'

'Bad genetics, they say,' he replied softly, eyes fixed on the oils that kept his daughter's memory alive. 'Had it been caught earlier, we might have treated it, but there was no reason to look. Or so I had thought.'

'She was very pretty.'

'She was the cherub that adorns cathedral frescos, an angel too bright to live in the shadows we could offer her.'

He looked back at Alyce, his eyes flitting over her face as she sat under the portrait of Dorothy.

'We must get in contact with your family. You cannot be anything over eighteen, and the streets of Gotham are not kind to children.'

'I have no family,' Alyce replied, her jaw setting harshly. 'Not anymore.'

'Then I will call Social Services. You're old enough that it should not be such an ordeal.'

Alyce shut her eyes. She remembered the Social Services and their trip to her home. Turning her home inside out, watching them all with accusing eyes. They had tried to take her then and she had refused. Leeches, her father had called them, waiting to suck you try and cast you aside.

'I would prefer to stay here,' she whispered, opening her eyes again. Against her will, tears were threatening to spill down her cheek at the thought of another day out in the world she didn't understand. Here at least there was someone to watch over her, and keep the world away. Jeremiah's eyes might have scared her, but they were one set against all those that leered over her out on the city's streets.

Something had changed in Jeremiah's face as he watched her. He looked as though he had seen a ghost.

'You look just like she did when she was upset,' was his simple reply.


End file.
